


Sugar

by milkysterek



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abusive Gerard Argent, Crimes & Criminals, Gold diggers, Happy Ending, Infidelity Outside of Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Murder, Murder Plot, sugar babies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-01-26 22:48:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12567924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkysterek/pseuds/milkysterek
Summary: Stiles' life is pretty perfect. He's cute, filthy rich and in love with the man of his dreams. That man of his dreams also happens to be the son-in-law of Stiles' wealthy, elderly husband but that's no drama; Gerard Argent is as old as he is repulsive and when he finally kicks the bucket, Stiles (and Derek) will inheriteverything.There's only one problem: the old bastard won't die.Stiles is going to have to take matters into his own hands.





	1. Baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'Kill Your Sugar Daddy' fic I've been obsessing over for months. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy it!

The best thing about living in California is that even in mid-October, Stiles can still get a tan. That’s all he wants out of life, really; nice clothes, a fizzy drink, money and a tan. It’s a lot to ask for, he thinks, but what does that matter when he already has all of them? Except for the fizzy drink, that’s next on his agenda.

Lydia and Erica are already seated at their table in the high-end cafe that they frequent every Monday. Lydia has called dibs on the pink velvet chair, so Stiles drops down beside Erica on the equally pink bench that backs up against the wall. It has plastic cushion covers, the sort that smells fake and kind of like childhood in that weird, artificial way. It’s not comfortable but it does look good - and that pretty much describes Stiles’ life. 

“Did you guys order?” He asks, placing his bag on the bench beside him.

“We waited for you,” Erica answers and takes a sip of her cherry soda. Lydia is drinking blueberry. Stiles orders lemonade. 

They all order ice cream and by the time it arrives, along with Stiles’ lemonade, the topic of conversation has already switched from where Stiles got his nails done to Erica’s dead husband. 

“It was tragic,” Erica sighs, but the glint of her teeth under dark red lips lets everyone at the table know how hard she’s trying to suppress a smile, “I always warned him skiing was a dangerous sport.”

She’s dressed all in black, from her lacy dress that barely covers the good stuff to the fresh manicure that she’s had time to get done since the passing of her husband less than twenty-four hours ago. Never let it be said that Erica Reyes doesn’t work quick. 

“I can’t believe Deucalion was the first to die,” Lydia marvels, twirling her straw around in her glass, “Though I suppose, not even I could have calculated for a freak accident.”

When captivating, enigmatic new money dies out of the blue, the papers are  _ always _ all over it and Deucalion's unfortunate demise on his spur of the moment skiing trip is no different. Stiles woke up this morning to his phone full of notifications about the accident and by the time he had finished getting dressed, he already knew all the gory details. 

Poor guy never saw that tree coming. 

“Are you going to have to identify the body,” Stiles asks, his face grim. Erica has a strong stomach even at the worst of times but from what he’s read so far, it doesn’t sound like there’ll be much left  _ to _ identify. 

Erica blanches and flicks her blonde curls behind her shoulders, “Fuck no. One of his kids’ll do it or something. Hell, maybe his ex-wife but there’s no way I’m going to Switzerland for him.”

“Won’t they bring his body back?” Lydia asks. 

Erica shrugs, “Don’t know, don’t care.”

And just like that, the topic of Deucalion’s untimely death is over.

 

After their stop at the cafe, the trio head out for milkshakes. All this diary before twelve is probably bad for his twinky figure, but Stiles doesn’t care. That’s mainly because he doesn’t give a fuck about his size but also because Monday is the sacred cheat day and he can eat what he wants on cheat day. 

“The real questions is,” Erica grins as they pile into her car. Lydia rides shotgun while Stiles takes up the entirety of the back, his long legs stretch out over the new smelling leather. The car is black, too - and new, very new. As in, purchased last night and delivered this morning, new. Once again, Erica works quick. The woman grins wolfishly through the rearview mirror at Stiles and says: “Which one of you will be widowed next?”

“Well, it won’t be me,” Lydia says primly, stroking the pad of her thumb over the nail of her ring finger. A huge diamond is balanced on that finger and Stiles finds himself endlessly wondering how Lydia manages to carry her hand around with such a large rock weighing it down. Peter is the least wealthy of their three husbands but he’s still loaded beyond anything Stiles could have ever hoped to have been - before he married Gerard of course. Peter’s also the youngest of the three, though Deucalion was only a few years older than him before he died. Lydia still likes to brag about it, though, especially since she’s pretty taken with her husband. 

Stiles, on the other hand…

“I don’t know about that,” He grumbles and slouches down further in the back of the car, his puffy lips set in a pout.

Erica catches his eyes in the mirror again, an eyebrow raised in interest, “What do you mean?”

“The old bastard won’t die!” He whines and smacks his head back against the door. It hurts more than Stiles had expected and he stews in his regret.

It’s infuriating, really. Gerard is ancient; he’s way older than both Peter and Deucalion and the fact that he’s wealthier than both of them too isn’t worth anything when he refuses to die. The entire point of marrying him was that he would drop and Stiles would get his money. It’s not fair, Gerard isn’t playing the game right. 

Okay, he knows how this sounds. It’s awful to wish death on someone, yada yada yada, but you have to believe him here, Gerard is awful. Some may say evil - and Stiles would agree. He’s kind of abusive too but Stiles is willing to put up with it for the ultimate reward at the end. And it’s not like Stiles wants him to die painfully or anything, he just thinks that once you get to a certain age it’s your duty - your  _ responsibility _ \- to quietly disappear into the ground and leave all your worldly possessions to your twinky husband. 

Gerard is hardly a victim here; he didn’t go into this marriage blind. He’s old enough to be Stiles’ grandfather. Who marries someone who’s younger than their granddaughter? Dirty old rich men, that’s who - and like all dirty old rich men, Gerard knew exactly what he was getting when he proposed to Stiles: a gold digger. 

Stiles sighs and pulls his sunglasses out of his bag. He places them on his face, folds his arms over his chest and closes his eyes, “Someone his age shouldn’t be able to survive winter.”

The two girls chuckle from upfront and Erica says in a joking tone, “If he won’t die on his own, you should do it for him.”

Stiles nestles back in his seat and laughs. 

 

Gerard isn’t home when Erica drops him off a few hours later. That’s nothing strange and Stiles is grateful for it; the mansion is lonely at times with only the staff for company, but better loneliness than the alternative. Ugh. Stiles is great at avoiding his husband, he even has his own bedroom where he usually manages to scuttle off to at night, convincing Gerard that most well to do couples sleep apart, that it’s the done thing. He doesn’t think Gerard minds all that much. It’s not like he enjoys Stiles’ company either, he just needs him every now and again to… well, to do husband things. Spread-legged husband things. 

Ew, right?

Heather - a member of staff, one that Stiles likes a lot - hands Stiles a small note from his husband when he gets to his bedroom. He thanks her and pushes open his bedroom door, a finger tearing at the paper. A sigh passes his lips when he sees what’s written: the family is coming to visit for Halloween. Apparently, they’re having nice lunch and then they’re hosting a party for friends, acquaintances and Gerard's shady business partners in the evening. By that, Stiles assumes, Gerard wants him to organise the whole thing. Stiles is good at hosting parties so it’s not really a problem but he has a real grudge against being told what to do in such an indirect way. The least the shrivelled up dick could do was  _ ask _ him to organise the event instead of assuming he’ll do it automatically. 

Gerard is an asshole and Stiles has gotten one too many backhands off him over the two year period that they’ve been married but, if it’s possible, his family are even worse. Stiles hates them and every time he’s forced into a social event with them he considers throwing himself from the nearest window. He gets why they don’t like him; if some twinky twenty year old wormed his way into his dad’s life, Stiles would be pissed, too. No, Stiles hates the Argents because they’re awful people, period. 

Allison Stiles can deal with. Yeah, she’s kind of annoying and doesn’t look like she’s ever had the ability to think for herself. Every time she opens her mouth her parents come out and, well, if Stiles wanted to talk to her parents, he’d talk to her parents - and Stiles does not want to talk to her parents. Victoria Argent, Allison’s mother is the most bigoted woman Stiles has come across and she’s  _ exhausting _ to talk to. Every conversation with her is like watching fox news without the ability to turn it off when it gets too mind-numbing. Then there’s Allison’s father, Chris, who while not as bad as Victoria is still pretty shitty. He’s more mellow, more accepting, but ultimately a sheep like his daughter and he hates Stiles - but that’s because of the whole marrying his father for his money thing - which Stiles understands. 

Still, those three are nothing compared to dear sweet Katie, Gerard’s only daughter and the apple of his eye. Well, kind of. Stiles doesn’t actually think Gerard has the ability to love anything, but if he could, Stiles thinks he would love Kate - he certainly pretends to. 

Kate is sadistic in a way you don’t often see outside of serial killer documentaries. Stiles doesn’t see her often but he’s heard stories about her childhood. Stories that involve small animals meeting grim ends and other disturbing things. She hides it well, but Stiles wouldn’t like to be left alone with her. There’s something in her eyes, something not right. There are other reasons he isn’t a big fan of Kate either but those aren’t really things he can reasonably blame her for...

Whatever, Stiles doesn’t care. He rips up the note and tosses it in the garbage, then gets out his personal planner. He better start working if he’s going to have everything sorted in the next two weeks. The first thing he needs to do is find a good caterer so he goes over to his bed and fishes out the burner phone from under his mattress. He’ll text Erica for recommendations on caterers and he doesn’t doubt a little bitching about his inconsiderate husband might slip in along the way. That’s why Stiles has to use the burner phone; Gerard reads his texts and there’ll be hell to pay if he catches Stiles badmouthing him to his friends. 

He gets a text back from her once he’s back in his chair at his dressing table, looking for Halloween decorations online. The text makes his scoff and slide the device back into his pocket: 

**_Kill your sugar daddy ;)_ **

 

It starts to rain in the late afternoon when the dark night has started to pull in and clouds pepper the usually clear sky. It’s still warm out and Stiles loves the smell of fresh rain on the ground so he takes his writing stationary out of his dressing table drawer and carries them down to the patio. There’s a canopy above him that protects from the rain while he can look out across the rolling grounds of his expansive home. He stretches his legs out in front of him and draws his attention back to his stationary. If the whole of Gerard’s family is coming, Stiles wants to see his special someone sometime before that. 

Of course, he’ll see Derek at the family lunch but he’d prefer to meet with him beforehand so the first time he sees him in weeks isn’t on the end of Kate Argent’s arm. 

_ Hey Handsome,  _ (he writes in his loopy hand that he uses especially for his love letters)

_ He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named says you’re coming to visit for Halloween. I can’t wait to see you but I think we can both agree that a family meal is not the best place for a… reunion. I think, and you know how I’m great at the thinking stuff, we should head out to Miami this weekend. Maybe you can take some time off work and not tell your lesser half? Book me a hotel room, somewhere near the beach. I might even ride you in the sand if you’re nice to me.  _

_ Also, Erica’s husband died and she’s loaded now. Great news! _

_ Okay, I have to head upstairs before You-Know-Who gets home from golf or whatever. I hope you’re not working yourself too hard!  _

_ Love, your Stiles xo _

Stiles takes some bright red lipsticks - something he never wears and only uses for letter writing - and slathers it on his lips before bringing the piece of pink writing paper to kiss it. He leaves the impression of his sticky, printed lips and folds up the letter before slipping it into an equally pink envelope then hands the letter off to Heather who hurries away with it. 

Hopefully, it won’t be long until he’s back in Derek’s strong, protective arms and far, far away from this place. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic will be updated every Monday until my fic On Air is complete, then I'll be updating this more regularly. 
> 
> [tumblr](http://milkysterek.tumblr.com/)


	2. Derek

Stiles smells like plane when he lands in Florida exactly five hours from when he told his husband he was going away for the weekend. Gerard didn’t seem to care; he had another golf tournament set and he was happy to have Stiles out of the house. That way Stiles couldn’t, in a fit of boredom, decided to redecorate the mansion again. That didn’t sound all that fair to Stiles, he’s only ever done that once and that was because Gerard had grounded him and stopped him from seeing his friends for two whole weeks. That guy takes the whole ‘daddy’ thing  _ way _ too seriously. 

There’s a car waiting outside of the airport and he wheels his case carrier over with a lot less than relative ease; he wasn’t going to pack much, the entire point of this trip is to  _ not _ wear clothes, but… Stiles  _ really _ likes clothes.

He rocks up to the hotel Derek has booked for him at four in the afternoon and makes his way up to his room straight away after tipping the kind lady at the front desk. Stiles has stayed in this hotel before and she’s always very nice to him; she once put a cool towel on his forehead when he was throwing up in his toilet. Oh, hangovers. Stiles doesn’t handle them well. 

A member of staff handles his luggage and Stiles ascends in the elevator on his own. It feels good to be away from California. Here, on the other side of the country, he feels freer - like he can be himself. He loves the lifestyle he’s chosen, the sickly pink sugar baby aesthetic, the money, the bratty, spoilt attitude he’s adopted, but sometimes he wants to be his normal self. He can be that when he’s here and he can be that around Derek. Don’t get him wrong, he and his facade don’t sit far from each other, but he can’t be on all the time. Sometimes he wants to chill. Derek lets him chill. Derek lets him do a lot of things. 

Unlocking his door, Stiles falls into the room and immediately stops in his tracks, his mouth dropping open wide. 

The room is full of flowers, all red and pink and white. Rose petals cover the bed and trail onto the floor like they’re leading a path there. A plushie is placed on the pillows, too. It’s a stuffed wolf and Stiles cracks a wide and beaming grin. There’s a table in the corner of the room and on it sits a champagne bucket and so many chocolates and sweets and little candies that Stiles can’t count them. There’s a little box of  _ Chocolate Frogs _ , like the ones from  _ Harry Potter _ . Stiles snorts at the inside joke and looks around the room, tingling with excitement and emotion. Derek really does have a knack for making Stiles feel cared about. 

Stiles is so distracted by all the hidden gems in the room that he almost misses the envelope that rests up against the wolf plushie. The man clambers onto the bed and opens it up gently, careful not to rip the envelope. He likes to keep these things for memories sake. Lydia keeps a hold of them for him in case Gerard finds them - which, thinking about it, is kind of risky anyway since Lydia is married to Derek’s uncle. It’s especially risky since Lydia has the sort of relationship with Peter Hale where you don’t have a separate bedroom and hide half of your life from your husband. She’d never admit it to Stiles and Erica, but Lydia and Peter love each other. That kinda came as a surprise when they realised since Lydia had married Peter for the exact same reason Stiles and Erica married Gerard and Deucalion - that cash money.

At least she’s happy.

Stiles gets the paper out of the envelope and flops down on the blanket, squishing some of the petals underneath his sleepy body. That plane ride really took it out of him and he was tired already before he ditched the house - he’d spent the night tossing and turning with excitement at finally getting to see Derek again after so long  _ and _ getting to spend the whole weekend with him. 

The paper smells like Derek’s cologne. He holds it to his nose for a moment and inhales, allowing the scent of his lover to flood his senses. Then, once he’s sated on the smell of Derek alone, he unfolds the paper and reads:

_ Stiles,  _

_ I hope your flight went well and you find this note in high spirits. I’ll be with you as soon as I can. Meanwhile, rest up, love. You’re going to need it. _

_ I love you,  _

_ Derek. _

Stiles has to bite his lips to stop from smiling. Derek isn’t a man of many words. He’s quiet, stoic, and rarely talks about his feelings, so this sort expression of his love means the world to Stiles. 

He pulls off his sweatshirt and kicks off his shoes and jeans then rolls over onto his side. Curling up in a small and comfy ball, he hugs the letter close to his chest and lets himself drift off with the feeling of soft petals against his bare legs. 

 

The feeling of soft petals against his bare legs is not the feeling that Stiles wakes up to. 

A soft smile curls it’s way onto his tired mouth and he wriggles his ass as Derek covers his smaller body with his own, muscular frame, plastering himself to Stiles’ back. Warm, wet lips press their way along his neck until they reach the hollow beneath his left ear. Stiles lets out a whispered, broken moan when Derek’s tongue laves out and laps at that point. 

“I’ve missed you,” He grunts and uses all his strength to push himself up on his elbows so he can turn under Derek’s mass and face him. Derek’s staring down at him with hooded, lust filled eyes, looking like he’s a moment from eating Stiles alive, “Yeah, I’ve really, really missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Derek breathes and then they’re kissing, hard and messily as they try to express everything they’ve felt during their weeks apart with their bodies. 

Derek’s tongue is hot and heavy as it devours Stiles’ mouth, invading it and taking him prisoner. Stiles lets himself be taken and mewls with pleasure while Derek  _ consumes _ him. Eventually, they get a steady rhythm going and Stiles melts into the sheets, letting Derek’s reassuring weight keep him grounded. They kiss until they’re breathless and gasping, red hot and rock hard. 

“I brought lube,” Derek tells him. He pulls away and fishes a new bottle out of his briefcase.

Stiles pushes himself up on his elbow and raises a questioning brow, smirking, “You brought it in your briefcase? A plastic bag would have sufficed, babe.”

Derek rolls his eyes and kneels back on the bed. His cock is out and hard as hell; he must have gotten naked while Stiles was still sleeping which is a nice thought though he would have liked to have watched the strip show. Derek looks so good when he’s taking his clothes off. 

Speaking of clothes, Stiles peels himself out of his spunk damp boxers and tosses them off to the side. 

“Kate thinks I’m at work, remember,” He says as he flicks the cap off and uses his free hand to drag Stiles down the bed by one leg. Despite hearing  _ her _ name, Stiles’ cock still jerks with excitement. He loves being manhandled and Derek knows it. 

“Don’t talk about her,” Stiles purrs, spreading his legs nice and wide for his lover, “Talk about me.”

Derek’s eyelids flutter as he lowers himself to get a closer look at the space between Stiles’ legs. He licks his lips, then meets Stiles’ eyes, “You do look  _ so _ fucking good, Stiles.”

Stiles shoots him a cheesy grin and he can tell Derek knows what’s coming because he suddenly looks exhausted, “Good enough to eat?”

“I thought we agreed on no puns in the bedroom,” He says, slicking up his fingers, “Just for that, I’m not eating your ass tonight.”

Stiles whines and pouts and doesn’t stop until one very cold, very wet finger is pushed inside him up to the second joint. He gasps and raises his hips at the intrusion which only helps to force Derek’s finger in further until it hits the knuckle. It feels good and Stiles wants more - so much more - but he’s going to have to behave himself if he wants to get it. 

“Anyone could have come in and seen you like that,” Derek muses and Stiles has to take a moment to work out what he’s talking about - which is a difficult thing to do when there’s a finger in your ass. Then he remembers coming straight up to his room and stripping down to his boxers to sleep, “I bet the kid who brought your suitcases up got an eyeful.”

Stiles flashes his teeth, darting his tongue out to lap at his kiss-swollen lips, “Jealous?”

Another finger is jammed carelessly in and Stiles arches, his head pressing into the blankets as he pants. The stretch is hard on his body, making him breathe heavily. It’s been a while and he doesn’t open well when he’s been neglected for so long. The pressure of Derek’s body joins him again and the man pins him down with his weight, his fingers still safe inside Stiles. 

“Shh, shh,” He whispers and laps his tongue out to lave over Stiles’ nipple, “You’re okay; relax for me, baby.”

Stiles lets Derek’s calming voice wash over him and focuses only on that, his eyes closed tight until he slowly starts to let go. Derek soothes him, kisses his bare skin and whispers gentle words of encouragement that make Stiles’ cheeks glow. While Derek doesn’t like to talk much as a rule, inside of the bedroom is another matter entirely. Derek can recite poetry when they’re beneath the sheets and turn Stiles into a puddle of warm goo with his kind and soft-spoken mouth. 

When he can find his voice again, Stiles whimpers out a gentle and broken, “I’m ready,” and Derek presses in a third and final finger. He scissors them back and forth, side to side, getting Stiles nice and loose for what’s coming next - and boy, will Stiles need it. Derek is big, so, so big and girthy too. His cock is magnificent and there isn’t a person alive that could take that beautiful cock without screaming. 

Once he’s nice and stretched and Derek is happy that he won’t be in any pain, he lubes up his cock and aligns it with Stiles’ empty hole. He pushes in slowly at first then loses control once he passes half way and bottoms out, right to the hilt. Stiles’ mouth falls open but nothing comes out except quiet little panting breaths. His cheeks colour a ruby red that spreads all the way to his neck and collar bones. Derek kisses his blush and that does exactly nothing to help. 

A low moan finally works it’s way out of Stiles’ throat when Derek begins to rock them. He wraps his legs around Derek’s waist, threads his arms around the man’s neck and presses his face into the crook of his neck. Stiles likes to fuck hard and fast at a brutal pace that has him screaming and begging for mercy, but not tonight, not on the first night. When they’ve been apart for a long time he needs something softer and more personal. He needs to be held and loved and cherished. He needs to know that Derek wants him just as much as he wants Derek. 

As nice as it is - and it is  _ very _ nice - it can’t last long. The withdrawal from each other’s touch combined with the fact that neither of them has all that much self-control when it comes to each other means that much sooner than either would like, Stiles starts grinding his ass on Derek’s fat cock, begging for more - and Derek is more than happy to oblige. 

Derek’s hips snap forward but he continues holding Stiles close; one strong arm is wrapped protectively around his waist while the other loops around his shoulders, lifting Stiles’ placid frame from the bed and the man fucks into him. Each deep thrust makes Stiles’ eyes roll as shocks of sharp pleasure flash up his spine and something warm and heavy starts to pool in his belly. He’s close now - and Derek can sense it.

Stiles’ body is dropped back onto the sheets and he bounces for a moment before Derek is plastering himself back down again, pinning him to the mattress. His lover alters his thrusts, snapping his hips hard and fast and rhythmically into Stiles’ begging hole, hitting his prostate in just the right way. Their lips find each other again and they kiss searingly hot between panting, gasping breaths and low, grunting moans. 

When Stiles cums, he feels like his entire body is flooding out of his cock which isn’t the cutest analogy but that’s how he feels. The pressure in his tummy releases and he groans into Derek’s shoulder, taking the time to suck at the flesh there without really thinking about it. It doesn’t take long for Derek to follow along. 

Derek rolls off of Stiles and pulls away. Then something cold and wet starts wiping his ass and Stiles realises - though there’s no way in hell he’s opening his eyes anytime soon - that Derek is cleaning him up. It’s sweet - but he’s still not opening his eyes. 

 

Thick, warm fingers card through his hair, nails scraping just firmly enough along his scalp. The fingers rub and stroke, massaging when they come to the base of his neck. Stiles all but purrs at the attention and doesn’t want it to end, so he pretends to be sleeping for just a little while longer. 

They dress together, hands roaming over each other’s bodies like they can’t help but touch. Derek had packed a change of clothes in his handy little briefcase so when they head out to the beach, he isn’t sporting his business suit like a total asshole. He even brought some different shoes to avoid getting sand in them. Seriously, they’re great at this infidelity thing. 

Gentle waves roll against the shore with a bubbly hiss. The water pulls back and leaves bright and colourful shells floating on the surface of the wet sand. Stiles bends over and picks one up, running the pad of his thumb over the damp and salty surface. The sun is setting now and the sky looks pink. He thinks that’s supposed to mean it’ll be nice out tomorrow - though he’s not sure if that’s just a saying with no actual factual basis or not. Derek wraps his arm around his waist and pulls him close as they stroll, pressing a soft firm kiss to his temple. Stiles smiles, as long as Derek’s here, he’s sure tomorrow will be perfect whatever the weather. 

“We should head back,” Derek sighs, like the thought physically pains him.

“What’s the rush,” Stiles replies and leans in closer to the warmth of Derek’s body, “We have all night.”

When Derek goes quiet, Stiles narrows his eyes and pulls back. 

“Derek, we do have all night, don’t we?”

In any other circumstance, the way Derek watches him from the corner of his eyes would be cute. The man bites at his lip, then says, with little confidence: “Kate thinks I’m at work.”

Stiles knows the nature of his and Derek’s relationship. They’re sneaking around behind their significant others’ backs. Even though Kate and Gerard are both shitty people, they have to keep up the act, no matter how much they wish they didn’t. Sometimes, Stiles thinks about calling the whole thing off, about leaving Gerard and running away with Derek. They would be so happy together. 

The jealousy that Stiles feels in the pit of his stomach is something he can’t hold off, no matter how rational a person he is. Derek catches the paling expression on Stiles' face and stops walking, taking hold of one of Stiles’ hands.

“You know I don’t love her,” He says - and it’s not a question. Stiles  _ does _ know. He knows that after everything Kate’s done to him, Derek could never truly love her. Stiles tells him that and while he still feels sick, they don’t fight about it. 

 

They hold hands all the way back to the hotel room and Stiles keeps his shell, twirling it between the fingers of his spare hand. Stiles climbs back into the bed that now has fresh sheets and Derek changes into his work clothes. They’re quiet and sullen and neither wants to talk first, to acknowledge that Derek has to leave now. To keep his mouth occupied, Stiles sucks on some of the mini sticks of rock Derek had left in the room for him as a surprise. He eats them one after the other, not caring that he’s basically binging on chunk after chunk of boiled sugar. Derek bought them for him and they taste good so he’s eating them. 

The time finally comes for Derek to leave and he bends down to capture Stiles’ lips in a lengthy kiss, “It won’t be for long, I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Stiles blinks up at him, “Promise?”

Derek smiles and kisses him again, “Promise.”

He leaves and Stiles is alone. He makes it a good whole forty seconds before he starts rummaging around in his luggage for his phone. Erica will know when she gets the text from his normal number not to give Stiles away for having a - hmm - houseguest. 

He gets it that Derek has to leave, but Stiles Stilinski does not do alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: *sits all week sulking because I won't let myself post this chapter until Monday*
> 
> Me waking up this morning: IT'S TUESDAY??????
> 
> [tumblr](http://milkysterek.tumblr.com/)


	3. Bad Influence

You can name any time, any place, make it fit perfectly with Stiles’ schedule and plan it months in advance and still, without fail, he will be at least twenty minutes late. His phone keeps buzzing with text after text from an agitated Erica. Stiles is ignoring her; if he pauses to reply, that’s just more time wasted that could be spent getting ready. Really, he’s doing Erica a favour in the long run. She should be grateful. That’s what he’s telling himself anyway, to distract from the chewing out he’s going to get when he finally traipses down to the beach. That woman is going to kill him.

(To be fair, Stiles probably wouldn’t be  _ as _ late if he hadn’t spent half of his getting ready time on his hands and knees, feeling around the carpet for his shell which has mysteriously disappeared.)

Stiles finishes lacing up his shoes and looks at himself in the floor length mirror. He’s wearing white jean shorts and a crop top. The shorts are because Erica texted him last night to say she’s on her period and, even though the two are best friends and Stiles loves that woman like a sister, he wants to spite her. It’s all in good fun. Something’s missing from his outfit, though, and he frowns at his reflection for a good five minutes (still ignoring the buzzing of his phone) until he realises what it is.

The collection of sunglasses that Stiles has packed are enough to rival the most high-end boutique. He lays them out on the bed in organised lines and scans over his collection. While his outfit is primarily white, his shoes have a splash of baby blue on them so he decides on a pair of light periwinkle blue, cat-eye sunglasses. If there’s one thing that Stiles likes, it’s a nice accessory. He grins at his reflection. Perfect.

 

“What in the fucking hell time do you call this?” Erica demands. She’s laying out on a sun lounger, dressed in a black bikini with a pair of black sunglasses covering her eyes. Two cocktails sit on the table that separates Erica’s lounger from the vacant one that she’s kept for Stiles. He does feel a little bad for keeping her waiting but he’s brought some of the rock candies down from his room, so he thinks he’s made it up to her. She takes a handful of the candies and all is forgiven.

Stiles gets himself comfortable and relaxes back into his lounger. The sun is like heaven on his bare skin and he sighs, content. Stiles’ life might be pretty easy but he really needs this vacation. He reaches over to the side and takes a sip from his straw. Flavour bursts across his tongue and he smiles as he gulps the sweet tasting drink. It’s good and while he shouldn’t really be drinking this early in the morning, he can’t find it in him to care.

“So,” He asks, placing his drink back down on the table and leaning back on the lounger again. He stretches his legs outs as far as they’ll go and toes off his shoes, enjoying the way the gentle breeze brushes against them, “Where’s Boyd?”

Erica smiles at the mention of her boyfriend and Stiles’ heart swells. She’s really taken with this guy and has been for months now. Stiles has known Erica for years and he’s never seen her this excited about a relationship. He’s so happy for her and Boyd is a great guy, too. If he had met him first and didn’t have Derek, he might have tried to snatch the young lawyer up for himself.

“He’s at the gym,” She tells him and twirls the straw in her cocktail, “He’ll be back in time for lunch, though. Is Derek joining us?”

Stiles shrugs, a little bitter, “He should be,” He says and tries not to sulk. He knows it’s not Derek’s fault, that him having to leave is unavoidable if they want to keep their little charade going. It’s still a bummer though, “I really want him to meet Boyd. I think they’ll get along great.”

“I think so too,” Erica grins, showing her gleaming teeth beneath her neutral coloured lips. Stiles is used to her sporting red; the neutral look is a nice change on her, “if they hit it off, we can double date.”

“Oh, God,” Stiles laughs, “Don’t tell Lydia that. She’ll want to join in.”

Erica frowns, her drawn on brows knitting together, “What’s wrong with that? We love Lydia.”

“Yes,” Stiles says slowly and takes another sip of his cocktail, “But haven’t you ever noticed that her husband and Derek have the same last name?”

The dawning realisation that lights up Erica’s face is both adorable and hilarious and Stiles covers his mouth to stop the snicker that wants to break free. He’d just kind of assumed she knew about Peter and Derek’s connection. It jumped out at Stiles straight away when he first met Derek at that family party last year. Then again, Stiles makes it his business to know everything there  _ is _ to know about the people he comes in contact with. He’s nosy like that.

“Oh, no,” Erica gasps, “He’s not Derek’s dad, is he?”

It’s no use, he can’t stop himself. He full on snorts at that and throws his head back against the sunlounger, laughing loud and bright. Erica laughs too, coming to the conclusion that she’s made a mistake.

“No, no,” He shakes his head, because the idea of Lydia getting the dick of his boyfriend’s father is way too amusing to him, “Uncle. Peter is Derek’s uncle. From what I can tell, they don’t get along all that well either.”

“Why not?” Erica asks and Stiles shrugs. He doesn’t really know and he doesn’t want to ask. It seems kind of like a sore subject for Derek and Stiles doesn’t want to prod into an already open wound. He thinks it has something to do with the family business, the one Peter earns all his money from. Derek seems eager to work for his uncle, but he wants a higher position in the company and that’s not something Peter is willing to offer his nephew, no matter how much of a hard worker he is. Stiles has no idea what they do for work, only that Derek is very hush hush about it and clams up whenever Stiles asks questions. It’s probably not all that important, anyway.

 

Derek does show up in time for lunch and Stiles practically launches himself into his boyfriend’s arms. He’s had a few too many cocktails, so he’s going to blame those for his overzealous welcome. Once Derek finally manages to detangle himself, he steps onto the decking outside of the beachside cafe and sits down at the table where Erica and Boyd are already waiting. He and Boyd shake hands which Stiles finds weird but Derek is wearing a tie for ‘work’ so he guesses it’s making his man more formal than usual. They order drinks and Stiles gets a salad which he immediately regrets; Derek doesn’t protest when he picks at the fries on his plate.

“So, guess what I learned today,” Erica announces when they’re done with their meal. She’s twirling her straw around her tongue and she’s definitely had too much alcohol today. Stiles might sneakily ask the waiter to bring her a glass of water with their next round. “A little birdy tells me  _ you’re _ Peter Hale’s nephew,” She pauses and rights her sunglasses on her face which were starting to slide off just a little. “Discuss.”

Derek shrugs and takes a swig of his beer, the bubbles clinging to the stubble above her upper lip. He wipes them away and leans back in his chair, aiming for nonchalance. Stiles can tell he’s uncomfortable with the topic. “What’s there to discuss?”

“Well,” Erica slurs and leans heavily onto Boyd’s shoulder, “It’s just a bit weird, isn’t it? Why are you two keeping your relationship a secret from him? Do you think he’ll tell on you? Because while Peter can be a bit - uh - creepy, I don’t think he’d go out of his way to jeopardise Stiles’ marriage. For one, he likes Stiles and for another, Lydia would kill him, no matter how big his dick is.”

Boyd chokes on his drink and covers his mouth with his hand, trying to be polite. Stiles doesn’t try at all and coughs and splutters until Derek wacks him hard on the back and he rights himself. It’s true, Peter does have a big dick; the first time Lydia had slept with him she called both Stiles and Erica on a conference call and told them in vivid detail just how magnificent the man’s cock was. Peter was still lying in the bed beside her, catching his breath, sounding mighty pleased with himself.

“Erica, I don’t think-” Stiles starts, trying to steer the conversation away from the sensitive subject but Derek cuts in, placing a warm hand on Stiles’ thigh.

“We just don’t get along all that well,” He says, brushing the matter under the table, “Peter isn’t all that trustworthy when it comes to family.”

Despite the tenseness in the air, Erica doesn’t take the hint and asks: “Why not?”

It’s Boyd’s turn to step in now and he does so by way of distraction, “Baby,” He smiles and Erica’s hazy eyes are immediately on him, “Why don’t we tell them the good news?”

“I thought we were going to wait until dinner?” She asks, frowning in her drunken confused state. She’s quite adorable like this, which is weird because Erica usually looks like she could eat you alive; she’s much more a lion than a kitten.

Boyd presses a kiss to her temple and smooths out her hair where he’s rumpled it, “I know, but I can’t wait any longer.”

At that, Erica full on beams. Her entire face lights up and she retrieves her bag from under her chair, “We haven’t told anyone yet, but, Boyd and I,” She looks at her boyfriend and the two take each other’s hands, staring lovingly into their eyes, “Have decided to get married.”

Stiles’ eyes go wide with excitement and he leaps out of his chair to wrap his arms around his best friend, “Erica, I’m so happy for you!” He grins and plants a big kiss on her cheek. Erica blushes in return and wipes the kiss with her hand. Beside him, he can hear Derek congratulating Boyd. He thinks they might be shaking hands again but he can’t be sure because Stiles’ mind is on other things. Like where the hell Erica’s ring is.  _ He wants to see! _ “Where’s the ring?” He asks, pulling at her fingers.

Erica opens her bag, lifts out her purse and pulls a giant fucking monster of a rock out of it. She slides the ring onto her finger and waggles them in Stiles’ direction, her chest jutting out with pride, “It was Boyd’s mother’s,” She says, and Stiles can understand where the pride came from. Erica may have married for the ‘wrong reasons’ once before, but she truly loves Boyd with every fibre of her being and having something so personal to him must mean a lot to her.

Stiles can feel himself welling up at the thought so he distracts himself by saying: “Ugh, you guys are gonna look so  _ hot _ at your wedding.”

The newly engaged couple laughs and starts to lapse into talks about their wedding planning. Somewhere during Erica describing her dream cake, Derek’s arm wraps itself around Stiles’ waist and gives a squeeze.

 

Half an hour later, the group part and head back to their respective hotels with Stiles announcing that he and Derek are off to have lots of sex in celebration of Erica and Boyd’s engagement. Erica and Boyd are also going to have lots of sex and Erica has promised Boyd some amazing shower head. Good for him, Stiles thinks.

It’s a short, ten-minute walk to the hotel and Stiles flops down on the bed when they get there. Derek isn’t far behind and lays himself down on top of his boyfriend, bringing his head to rest in the crook of Stiles’ neck. He nuzzles, taking his own comfort. Stiles feels his eyelashes flutter against the sensitive skin there.

“You okay, babe?” He asks, rubbing his hand up and down Derek’s suit covered spine. He really wants to get his man out of the monkey suit - though he does look magnificent in it.

Derek nods and hums an affirmation. Then, after a pause, he voices his concern from earlier.

“I didn’t think Peter would come up at lunch.”

Stiles hadn’t really expected Derek to bring the matter back up. He and Derek are very open with each other and share a lot more than they ever would with anyone else, but Peter is something Stiles knows well to stay away from. It makes Derek uncomfortable and while Stiles longs to know more about  _ why _ that is, he respects his boyfriend’s privacy. If the time comes when Derek is ready to tell him, he’ll tell him. If not, well, that’s okay too.

“I’m sorry,” He says gently and presses a kiss to Derek’s soft hair. It tickles his nose a little and he scrunches it up. “Erica wouldn’t have pushed if she was sober. I don’t think she could tell you didn’t like it. I’ll talk to her later about it and clear everything up.”

“It’s okay,” Derek sighs and kisses Stiles’ neck, slow and sloppily, “I don’t mind. I know she didn’t mean anything by it. Plus,” He says, raising himself up on his forearms. “I’d much prefer you spend that time with me.”

A cheeky smirk works its way onto Stiles’ lips and he looks at Derek through hooded lids. Derek has moved down the bed and is now slowly unbuttoning Stiles’ white shorts. He pulls them down the long expanse of Stiles’ legs until the item drops off the side of the bed. “And what do you suggest we do with that time?”

Derek pulls off each of Stiles’ shoes and tosses them over his shoulder, keeping his green eyes glued on Stiles the whole time, “I can think of a few things.”

 

“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck!” Stiles screams, head falling forward and fingers slipping around the basin of the sink. He loses his grip and slides onto his forearms, jarring them hard against the cold porcelain. He’s going to be covered in bruises come morning but he doesn’t care - can’t think about that right now. Everything is so  _ much _ . He feels like his stomach is going to explode. It’s so full of cum, full to the brim and if cum inflation was a thing, he’d be looking seven months pregnant right now.

Derek is ruthless and each of his harsh, punishing thrusts send Stiles riding up the sink. His head collides with the mirror above the basin and he groans, letting his face stay on the cool, glass surface. Every slam of Derek’s expert hips hit Stiles’ prostate perfectly and he sobs, desperate for release as his flushed face rubs up and down the mirror leaving sweaty marks behind that some underpaid college student is going to have to clean up later. He needs to cum - is  _ begging _ to cum - but Derek is relentless. His cock is unforgiving and merciless; there’s no way Stiles is getting his release until Derek decides it’s time.

“Please, please, please,” He whines, letting a wrecked sob tear through his throat as he draws closer and closer to the end. He just wants to cum, he’ll be such a good boy if Derek lets him cum. He tells Derek that and something in his voice must make his boyfriend crack, ease just a little, because Derek is wrapping an arm around Stiles’ waist and pulling him away from the sink. Without pulling out, he leads him down to the floor and onto all fours. The bathroom tile is nice and cold beneath his bare hands; Stiles leans forward and rests his face, shoulders and part of his naked torso. It’s grounding in a way he needs and his eyes roll in pleasure when Derek resumes his brutal assault.

They’ve been at this for hours now, ever since they arrived back from lunch. Every time Derek cums, he inserts a light pink plug he’d brought in his briefcase to keep his cum locked up safely inside Stiles’ red and burning ass. It’s an obsession of his, like this primal need to keep Stiles filled at all times. Stiles is a little bit in love with it. Even though he feels like he’s about to burst, the thought of having all that precious spunk safe inside him where he can keep it warm for his love fills him with a great sense of pride. It also feels amazing when Derek pulls out the plug and slides his cock back into Stiles’ messy, sloppy heat. So, there’s that…

“Shhh, shhh,” Derek whispers, his damp and wicked lips at Stiles’ ear, “You’re okay.”

It’s then that Stiles realises that he’s crying. He’s so close and so desperate for release that he’s started sobbing on the bathroom floor. Oh, god, he really is a mess. Finally, taking mercy, Derek’s hand wraps around Stiles’ aching cock and tugs once, twice, three times until Stiles is spurting out his warm release. He feels like he’s coming for an eternity; it’s never-ending and the high he gets from it is enough to have him collapsing flat on the ground.

Derek catches him in his safe arms and lifts him carefully up into his lap like Stiles is precious, fragile. Stiles is a pretty tough guy and he won’t hesitate to fight a bitch if he has to but after a good fucking, after Derek has  _ destroyed him _ and put him back together, it’s like he’s the most delicate thing in the world.

The shower is a blur with Derek doing all the work. He cleans Stiles up as best he can and is gentle around his hole, careful not to hurt the sensitive area. It’s probably a good thing his little vacation ends tomorrow; he doesn’t think his asshole could take another moment of this.

When Stiles is set down on the bed, he melts into the sheets. He knows they need to get ready but - as stated earlier - he’s always at least twenty minutes late and he can’t see Erica disciplining him for being late when there’s cock involved. She’s a good friend like that. She’s probably going to be late anyway because Boyd, too, has a penis and, according to Erica, he certainly knows how to use it. Ugh, he’s so happy for her, getting to ride that dick for the rest of her life. She is a true inspiration.

The after-sex haze starts to taper away and Stiles finally returns to the land of the living to find Derek looking in his closet. He had unpacked last night after Derek left and he arranged for Erica to come keep him company. Derek’s always found Stiles’ fashion sense a little strange. It’s not that he has a problem with Stiles wearing ‘women’s’ clothing - on the contrary, he quite likes it - it’s that he has a very varied taste. He loves his pretty pink outfits that he buys from obscure stores online; he has hordes upon hordes of thrifted clothing from the sixties, seventies, eighties, nineties; there are business suits and sweatpants and clothes he buys from the men’s department; he dresses like a sugar baby, he dresses like a stoner, sometimes he dresses how he did before he married Gerard, back when he had nothing and  _ was _ nothing. Stiles’ taste is vast and pretty much a free for all… which means he has a lot of clothes - and that’s what Derek find’s weird.

“You really don’t need eleven different shades of yellow dungarees.”

“You know nothing, Derek Hale,” He yawns and rolls over onto his side to watch, “I have to put clothes on now, don’t I?”

Derek looks over his shoulder and smirks, “Unfortunately.”

“Are you checking me out?” He asks in a mock accusatory tone. Derek just rolls his eyes and unpacks a change of clothes.

Derek’s brought his dark, plum coloured shirt for dinner. It’s the one that stretches so nicely over his chest and makes his abs look like they’re about to pop out and get you. Stiles has always loved that shirt and Derek knows it. What a tease. He gets changed and settles down on the bed, opening up a magazine to pass the time. Stiles feels deeply sorry for Derek because they’re going somewhere nice for dinner tonight which, obviously, means it’s going to take Stiles ages to get ready.

He’s not sure what he want’s to wear, really. Usually he as some kind of plan before the evening, some sort of daily theme he wants to follow. He’s feeling kind of feminine today so at least that’s something to go on. With that in mind, he starts fanning through his collection of skirts. Something catches his eye and he pulls it out eagerly; it’s a crushed velvet, powder pink skirt in a skater style. He only bought it last week but already it’s his favourite item of clothing that he owns - and that’s saying something.

Stiles dresses pretty quickly after that - quickly for him, at least. He pulls on the skirt and adds a pair of white tinted tights complete with little white polka-dots, some crushed velvet heels that have a tiny strap around each ankle for him to fasten and a nice turtleneck jumper - also in white. He thinks he looks cute and he’ll fight anyone who disagrees with him.

“How do I look?” He asks, spinning on the spot so his skirt flies out at the edges.

Derek looks up from the magazine and grins, “Gorgeous.”

Stiles grins back: right answer.

 

They uber to the restaurant because there’s no way they’re driving Derek’s car through Miami Beach on a Saturday night. At only seven in the afternoon, there are already many people out on the streets, glammed up and ready for a good night out with their friends and loved ones. Stiles rests his head on the window and lets out a deep breath through his nose. He really does love Florida, even if the people here do seem to be a little deranged. This is his happy place, the place he comes to be safe and alone with his soulmate. This is where he can reach his hand out, the palm facing up and the back pressed against the cool leather of the seat and feel Derek’s fingers instantly interlock with his own. He looks down at their entwined hands and smiles at how perfectly they fit together, like two parts of the same puzzle. When he looks up, Derek is smiling too.

The uber stops and they step out into the warm evening air. It’s a little moist and Stiles wonders if the turtleneck was a mistake. Thankfully, the material is pretty thin and lightweight, so he thinks he’ll be okay. Derek leaves a tip, swatting Stiles’ hand away when he tries to pay himself. Stupid Derek, he never lets Stiles pay for anything. It’s ridiculous how much he’s had to improve on his sneak game just to keep the relationship’s finances somewhat fair. The uber pulls away and they walk into the restaurant, Derek’s hand firm and comforting at the base of Stiles’ spine. Erica and Boyd are already there and they wave them over.

“They’re bringing bread,” Erica says, flicking her golden locks over her shoulders. She’s wearing a blood red dress with a sweetheart neckline; the necklace that hangs around her neck screams wealth and Stiles wonders where she got it. He also wonders what happened to all the black and he asks her just as much. Erica grins and leans into Boyd who’s sat beside her, “Well, I can’t mourn the death of one husband when I’m about to marry another.”

Stiles nods. Makes sense.

They order cocktails first which come with the appetisers. Boyd tells them about work and how he’s trying to get Erica to move closer to him. That’s not exactly far, they’re both in California. Boyd explains that it’s less about the distance and more about him not wanting to live in his soon-to-be wife’s dead husband’s house.

“It’s  _ my _ house now,” Erica explains, sipping her cocktail, “And it’s not like he died there.”

“That’s not the point,” Boyd groans and waves a hand as if looking for backup. Derek nods in agreement, a show of solidarity. Stiles agrees, too. If Derek had a dead husband, Stiles wouldn’t want to be riding dick in a dead man’s bed.

Speaking of riding dick…

Erica rolls her eyes and accepts defeat for now. A new subject has taken her interest, the subject of chewing out Stiles. “Why were you two so late, anyway?”

“I told you,” Stiles shrugs and picks up his cocktail, “I was getting that good dick.”

“I don’t think dick is a good enough excuse for your tardiness anymore. You’re going to have to give me something a little better than that,” She purrs, leaning forward on the table, resting on an elbow.

Not that it’s such a hardship to discuss the intimate details of his sex life - on the contrary, Stiles loves talking about all the dirty, filthy things Derek does to him - but a man has to act at least a little put upon when opening up about personal secrets. He sighs and sits back in his chair, acting as if Erica is prying into something so shameful that he can barely even make eye contact with her.

“It was awful, Erica,” He says, fanning himself with a napkin he swipes from the table, “I was hysterical for the dick, willing to  _ die _ for the dick. I swear, it was like he was possessed. One minute we were making passionate love and the next I had been fucked so many times in so many different positions that I genuinely think I might be pregnant. Worse than that, there might still be cum dripping out of my ass as we speak.”

Derek groans - not in the sex way - from beside him and Boyd looks gravely down at his hands, “I didn’t need to hear that.”

“Stop telling people you’re pregnant,” Derek whines - actually  _ whines _ \- and crosses his arms over his chest like a petulant child.

Stiles huffs, “Oh, don’t pretend you wouldn’t be into it if it was possible. What else could you have been trying to achieve with that butt plug? I was stuffed like a turkey on Christmas.”

“I was  _ not _ trying to get you pregnant,” Derek defends, his jaw tight and teeth clenched. Bless him, he gets flustered so easily. It really is adorable.

Erica is practically glowing at the other side of the table, his big eyes bright. She certainly got what she wanted, “You and I are going to talk more about that later,” She promises, then adds for good measure: “In  _ great _ detail.”

“Oh, look, food!” Boyd deflects as their main course arrives. He’s looking at his Tuscan style lamb chops like they've just saved his life and Stiles can understand that. As far as he’s aware, Boyd is straight and, that aside, who really wants to hear about cum dripping out of anyone’s ass - especially when you’re at dinner. He should probably apologise for his outburst later. He makes a mental note to do so.

Erica ordered the lobster spaghetti while Derek and Stiles settled on the coal roasted short rib for two. Their meals all look delicious and suddenly Stiles is starving. He picks up on of the sticky ribs, immediately covering his fingers with sauce and says a quiet farewell to his white sweater before tucking in. Ugh. It’s as good as he had imagined. Damn, Stiles loves to eat.

“Mmm,” Stiles moans, tipping his head back, “Let's get married here!”

There must be sauce on his face because Derek picks up a napkin and wipes at his lips, smiling fondly, “You’re already married.”

Oh, yeah. Sometimes he forgets.

“Still?” Erica fake gasps because she knows fine well Stiles and Gerard are still together. She drops her fork to her plate and gives his a playfully displeased look. Picking up her fork again, she jabs it in Stiles’ direction for emphasis, “You need to get rid of him.”

“That’s ominous,” Boyd snorts as he cuts into his lamb. Stiles is considering ordering some of that next time.

“It’s true,” She says to her fiancé. The wine arrives and they thank their waiter as he pours them each a glass. Once he’s gone, Erica continues where she left off, taking a sip of her wine, “It’s basic nature. You’re born, you get old, you die - and Gerard is very, very old.”

Boyd’s shaking his head and trying to contain a smile, “That doesn’t mean murder is the answer. Like you said, he’s old. The guy will die on his own.”

“I doubt that,” Stiles huffs around a rib. Gerard is a spiteful old git. He probably won’t kick the bucket until Stiles is long gone and far away from any inheritance there might be.

Erica twirls her spaghetti around her fork, chewing and swallowing. There’s a determined look in her eye and the arch of her brow lets the table know she means business, “If Deucalion hadn’t had that accident, I probably would have seen to him myself,” Stiles’ eyes threaten to bulge out of his head and Boyd chokes on his wine, side-eyeing his wife-to-be with the look of a man reviewing all his life decisions. Stiles thought she had been joking all those times she mentioned killing Gerard. Is that morbid? Sure, but people have different tastes in what is funny and, well, Stiles and his friend are kind of dicks. How the hell was he supposed to know she was being serious -  _ is _ being serious? “Oh, don’t you two look at me like that. You all watch the news. Rich old men always kill their wives. They find someone new to play around with on the side, decide they want the shinier, perkier model and god forbid they get a divorce! The next thing you know, to have and to hold turns into to hold underwater while he drowns you in the bathtub. There’s no way that was ever going to happen to me. All I’m saying is, Deuc had a lucky escape with that tree. The second his affairs stated moving their belongings into my house I would have gone at him with a kitchen knife. I drown for no bitch.”

Stiles blinks, his mouth gaping, nearly catching flies. From the corner of his eye, he can see Derek nodding like he gets it. Like killing your husband is a totally chill and acceptable solution to a problem. Boyd, to Stiles’ horror, is laughing, “Baby, tell me the truth,” He wraps an arm around Erica and smiles, “Should I be worried?”

“Of course not!” Erica says sincerely and wraps her arms around Boyd, “I’m marrying you because I love you. I’d die if anything bad ever happened to you.”

Erica’s words deteriorate into kissing and Stiles turns to look at Derek who’s shaking his head. Funny, he would have thought Derek would be a bit more concerned about all of that.

 

After a beautiful dessert of carrot cake and a coffee to end the night, the two groups pay for their meals, leave a generous tip and step out into the dark street. It’s unsurprisingly chilly now that it’s almost midnight and Derek wraps his arms around Stiles, pulling him close so he can enjoy some of Derek’s body heat; Derek has always run warmer than most and that’s something that Stiles is eternally grateful for at times like these. While they’re waiting for their uber, Derek and Erica go off to the side and she apologises for her drunken outburst at lunch. To avoid listening in, Stiles talks to Boyd about the new cases he’s working on. It gets a bit awkward when Boyd reveals that he’s currently defending a rich, old doctor who may or may not have murdered his wife to be with his barely legal secretary. Stiles is going to go ahead and not think about that.

The uber pulls up a few minutes later and Stiles and Derek say goodbye to their friends. Stiles is thrilled when he catches Derek and Boyd exchanging phone numbers and promising to organise something once they’re back in California. Beaming, he kisses Erica on the cheek, gives Boyd a hug and climbs into the car, pulling his boyfriend after him.

They get back to the hotel just after twelve and make their way up to Stiles’ room in silence. All the laughter that had followed them home from the restaurant dies when they get to the door. Stiles wraps his arms around his own body and stares down at the floor. He hates this. He hates this  _ so _ much. Every single goodbye cuts him like a knife and leaves his shaky and open. Knowing who Derek is going home to makes the whole thing even worse; and he  _ knows _ , okay, he knows he’s the bad guy. He knows what he and Derek are doing is wrong and that he’s a dirty little cheat and a homewrecker who’s moving in and stealing his step-daughter’s (gah) man - but Kate’s fucking awful and she’s never deserved Derek. She’s cruel and she preyed on him when he was far too young for her. She hurt him and tried to turn his own family against him, tried to separate them so she could be fully in control. Does that excuse what he’s doing? No. Does he care? Fuck no.  _ She doesn’t deserve him _ .

A finger cradles under Stiles’ chin and gently nudges it, encouraging him to look up. Derek’s eyes are warm, the mixture of greens and blues sparkling in the low light. He’s relaxed and  _ happy _ . Derek is never happy back in California, not when he’s with her. The person Derek is when he’s with the Argents is cold and closed off and in so much pain. This Derek, his Derek, is the one he deserves to be all the time.

Derek’s smile is so bright and full of life that it dazzles Stiles. “I got you something,” He says and reaches into his pocket. What he pulls out is a beautiful pink scallop shell dangling from a delicate silver chain. So  _ that’s _ where his shell went. Stiles grins from ear to ear, “I hope you don’t mind me borrowing it.”

Stiles shakes his head and turns his back to his boyfriend, “Put it on me.” Derek obliges and once it’s fastened, Stiles turns back around. He looks down at his shell and carefully runs the pad of his thumb over the smooth surface, “Thanks, Derek. I love it.”

“I’m glad,” Derek smiles, then they both lapse back into silence. The air is thick around them and both can feel the tension building, “Stiles,” Derek says gently but Stiles is already shaking his head.

He looks up at Derek with wide, pleading eyes. He doesn’t want this to end. Today has been amazing and the thought of Derek leaving now will ruin everything. It’s dangerous, he knows that, but he so wants to spend the night with the man he loves. Tomorrow, he wants to wake up in Derek’s arms, with the scent of them together wrapping him up like a blanket. There have been too many lonely mornings with only a text from Derek to get him through and he just - he just wants _one_ night.

“Please,” Stiles begs and he’s surprised at how quiet his voice comes out. He had expected something closer to a whine, something petulant and bratty, but right now Stiles’ entire body is singing, tingling with a need to be close to his love. Derek must feel it too, that growing hunger, because the moment the word has left his lips Derek’s mouth is right there, his tongue, his everything.

They stumble into the room, their hands all over. Stiles’ sweater is up and over his head before they’ve even gotten the door closed and by the time the back of Stiles’ bare legs touch the bed, Derek is naked and hard and  _ leaking _ . Their fucking is brutal at first, desperate, like this is the last time they’re ever going to feel each other. Stiles gets lost in the pleasure of it all and almost blacks out when he cums. As bad as the thought of Derek leaving was before, now it’s unbearable and he wraps his arms and legs around his lover, clinging to him with all his might.

“It’s okay,” Derek breathes and it’s like he  _ knows _ . He keeps his cock buried deep in Stiles’ ass while he moves their bodies and gets them under the blankets. Stiles is cuddled tight to his chest, every inch of them is touching, it’s like they’re one, “It’s okay,” He repeats, whispering into Stiles’ hair, “I’m not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There won't be a chapter on the 20th because I'm sick and can barely sit up, never mind type, so I'm going to give myself the week off if that's chill. I just don't wanna stress over writing when I should be stressing over the fact that I'm on DEATHS. DOOR. And I'm not being at all dramatic about it.
> 
> Regular updates will resume the Monday after. Please keep me in your thoughts. My skin hurts.
> 
> Milky x


	4. Homecoming

Waking up in the arms of Derek Hale is just how Stiles always imagined it. Every inch of his body is lax with the contentment of a good night's sleep. He’s warm from head to toe and well rested in a way he hasn’t felt in months - maybe ever. Even the tacky sweat that’s peppering his skin and sticking him to Derek’s chest doesn’t bother him. In fact, he finds he likes it. He likes the feeling of having every single part of his naked body pressed against Derek with nothing, not even air, between them. It’s perfect and even though Stiles’ ass is aching, telling him they went too hard last night, that Derek stayed in him too long, he doesn’t think he’s been happier than he is in this moment.

Derek groans when he wakes, stretching his legs out until his knees click and arching his back like a kitty. Stiles watches with hungry eyes at the way his lover’s body bends and contorts with morning stiffness until he’s finally sated and blinks blurrily back at him, “Morning,” Derek mumbles and presses his lips to Stiles’ temple.

“You’re cute when you first wake up,” Stiles grins, reaching up to plant his fingers deep into the mass of messy hair that sits askew on top of Derek’s head. It sticks up in all different angles and the texture is soft and warm. It’s something Stiles could get used to.

Derek smirks and rolls over so that he’s straddling Stiles’ waist. He sits up, tall and powerful, his impressive abs propped right in front of Stiles’ face. God, he could lick those things. “Aren’t I cute all the time?” He asks, raising a brow.

Stiles rolls his eyes and slaps at Derek’s chest, “You’re the worst. Put that body away, you’re corrupting my innocence.”

Derek snorts, “Please,” He laughs, “After yesterday, there’s no convincing anyone of your ‘innocence’ again.”

Fuck. Derek’s right. They really did outdo themselves yesterday. Stiles isn’t sure how he still has the ability to walk. He was truly fucked into oblivion - and it was so,  _so_  good. His mind wrapped firmly in the pleasure Derek gave him last night, he decides to return the favour.

“Move,” Stiles grunts, twisting so Derek rolls off his waist and onto the bed, “Roll over.”

Derek does as he’s told, which is remarkable in itself, really, and lays there, stark naked on the bed. Stiles’ eyes run down the deep valley of Derek’s strong shoulders, roaming from his triskelion tattoo all the way to his tight waist and big, beautiful ass. Derek has an ass to die for and Stiles isn’t a strong enough man to stop himself diving in.

It isn’t often that Derek gets eaten out. The guy loves it, goes wild for the feeling of Stiles’ wicked tongue circling his tight ring, lapping teasingly until the muscle gives way and allows him entrance. It’s amazing to see and Stiles would do it all the time if he wasn’t worried about spoiling them both. This is a treat for Stiles  _and_  Derek, so when it comes, it comes hard.

“Fuck,” Derek’s groan is muffled by the thick, fluffy pillow he has jammed in his mouth. The man is clinging to the mattress with one hand, the headboard with the other while he pushes his ass back, desperate to get Stiles in deeper. Stiles has two hands buried deep in the swell of Derek’s cheeks, squeezing and kneading and pulling them apart as he jabs his tongue in and out, flicking it whip-quick before soothing Derek’s tight walls. He knows Derek is close and wonders for a moment if he could get Derek to cum like this, with only his tongue in his ass and his hands on his cheeks. Maybe that’s something to try another time, he thinks, when Derek isn’t begging so needily, a second away from bucking Stiles off and finishing things himself. He goes to pull back but Derek makes a wrecked and pleading noise, “No, no,” He gasps, arching his back and presenting his ass oh so prettily for Stiles, “Don’t stop. Want you to fuck me.”

Breathing heavily, Stiles strokes a hand over the base of Derek’s spine; his skin is damp, electric and shining in the warm morning light. It’s so rare for Derek to beg like this, to keen and almost sob with the boiling desire to have Stiles take him. It’s a beautiful sight to behold and if Stiles wasn’t hard already, this would be enough to get him tenting in seconds. Fisting his cock, Stiles climbs up onto his knees and grabs for their bottle of lube. He slicks himself up, coating his cock good before doing the same to Derek’s already gaping, greedy hole.

He’s going to make the most of this.

 

The flight home is awful. Derek drops him off at the airport, kissing him deeply before he has to leave for his own plane with a promise that they’ll talk soon. If Stiles hated saying goodbye to Derek for just one night, this was hell. The sex this morning had been out of this world but it did nothing to soothe the heavy ache in Stiles’ soul. The next time he’d see Derek would be at Halloween when he comes with the  _family_ . Stiles is going to have to sit through an entire dinner with nothing to do but wipe at Gerard’s crusty chin when he gets gravy smeared there and watch as Kate drapes herself all over his man. Okay, technically  _her_ man, but - dammit, Derek is _his_ man!

Stiles groans in his window seat and looks out at the tarmac as the plane begins take off. He does  _not_  briefly consider running to the emergency exit and throwing himself out, tumbling under the huge, bone-crushing wheels of the said plane. That would be ridiculous and too dramatic for even him. Probably. 

All this time on his own leaves Stiles with a lot to think about. There’s Erica and Boyd’s engagement which he is thoroughly thrilled about, the beautiful necklace Derek got made out of Stiles’ shell that he loves; then there are other things, less exciting things. While Stiles honestly doesn’t mind Derek keeping his history with Peter to himself, part of him is worried. Peter is married to one of Stiles’ best friends. You could say that Peter and Lydia are family - and Derek specifically said that Peter isn’t trustworthy when it comes to family. He should keep his nose out, it’s none of his business after all, but, well, Stiles is kind of shit at minding his own business and he’s  _worried_. Isn’t it a best friend’s job to worry? He decides to keep his mouth shut on the matter, either way. He’ll keep an eye on Peter, though, from afar. Just in case. Lydia would do the same for him.

There is, of course, another point from yesterday to consider; that whole thing with Erica wanting Deucalion dead was  _wild_  - and the way everyone else at the table just accepted it was even wilder. Stiles knew Boyd was stoic and didn’t scare easy but holy shit. If that didn’t send him running for the hills then what would? Still, Stiles is glad Boyd sees it fit to stay and even marry Erica. He likes the guy and he can’t wait for him and Derek to start up a budding friendship. Plus, he finally has someone to double date with!

With his thoughts running wild, Stiles rubs at his temples and orders a whiskey once they’re in the sky. A nice air hostess brings it to him and he sips on the warming drink while looking out of the window as they cruise through the fragile clouds. If Erica had been serious about getting rid of Deucalion herself, maybe her jokes about Gerard aren’t jokes at all. Surely, that’s insane. She can’t  _really_  want Stiles to… No. He won’t think about it. It’s absurd and weird and it makes something deep in the pit of Stiles’ stomach grow cold. He doesn’t want to think of his best friend like that, being capable of wanting something like that - and he certainly doesn’t want to think about just how much he might want that too.

California is still California when Stiles lands and even though Lydia is there to pick him up from the airport, smiling and waving with a sign that says something very dirty on the front - thanks, Lyds - Stiles still can’t shake the sadness that clings to him. It won’t be long until he sees Derek again but that doesn’t make any of this easier. Not one bit of it.

By the time Lydia drops him off at the mansion it’s almost time for bed. Hopefully, that means he can bypass Gerard and go straight to his room for the night.

When is Stiles ever that lucky?

 

“You’re back late.”

Stiles freezes. He’s halfway up the stairs, hand sliding over the bannister and bones aching from the six-hour flight when Gerard’s cold, penetrating voice stops him in his tracks. He drops his hand and turns on his heels to face his husband, his mask in place.

“Yeah, I was going to get an earlier flight but Erica and I wanted to get a little more sunbathing in before I left,” He lies, expertly well.

Gerard seems to buy the lie, just like he almost always does. He doesn’t like the explanation, though, and his face sours, darkening. “There’s sun in California. Quite a lot of it,” His voice rattles from a mixture of age and years of chain smoking gone unchecked.

“Florida sun is different to California sun,” He says and, sensing he’s in trouble, walks back down the stairs, head bowed. When he gets to the bottom, Gerard holds out his hand and Stiles knows exactly what he wants, exactly what he’s demanding. He slides his phone out of his back pocket and places it in Gerard’s cold, clammy hand.

Gerard checks through his phone, through his pictures and messages. Stiles isn’t worried; he’s good at covering his tracks. All the old man finds are selfies of Stiles and Erica on the beach, sipping cocktails and smiling and the texts on his phone are mostly mindless drivel along with Stiles inviting Erica to stay with him because he’s bored. Gerard huffs and hands the phone back before walking away to the outside patio. Stiles knows to follow.

“I don’t know why you go on those stupid vacations by yourself. You always get bored and have to call someone to visit you,” Gerard says, sitting down on the outside dining set, “Sit,” He orders and Stiles does as he’s told.

Eating out here is usually something Stiles enjoys. The gardens, as always, are beautiful, especially at this time of day. The sun is just setting and the golden light blankets his roses in stunning, shimmering brilliance. Gerard’s presence, of course, ruins all of that and Stiles pulls the soft material of his dark pink sweater tighter around his body.

“Not bored,” Stiles corrects, the truth falling from his lips before he can think better of it, “Lonely.”

Gerard’s face does something strange but he doesn’t inquire further. It makes Stiles feel uneasy and he looks back out over the roses. Maybe he can do some gardening tomorrow afternoon to pass the time. He still has a lot to do before  _the family_  get here for Halloween and the after party, too, but those aren’t things he’s really looking forward to. Plus, he doesn’t feel like putting his usual effort into an event for people he hates.

“What’s that?”

Stiles stops what he’s doing and looks back at his husband. He’s confused for a moment before he realises where his hand is, what it’s fiddling with. Absentmindedly, he must have started to play with his necklace. The necklace that his lover had bought him, the necklace that his husband is now staring at, demanding an explanation.

“A necklace,” Stiles answers dumbly while his brain works on overdrive, fishing for a decent defence that won’t raise more questions. Ugh, he’s been so fucking stupid. Rule number one of fucking around: don’t wear your boyfriend’s gifts in front of your husband. That’s a damn rookie mistake.

Heather hurries in then, her arms full of plates that she places noisily down on the table. Her clumsiness averts Gerard’s icy gaze just long enough for Stiles to work everything out in his head. Heather apologises and leaves while Gerard digs into their late dinner of… Stiles doesn’t know. It’s some sort of meat and it tastes good but Stiles really doesn’t want to be here so he’s not concerned with what he’s shovelling into his mouth. The faster he eats, the faster he can make a break for it.

“That doesn’t look like any of your other necklaces,” Gerard counters but Stiles is ready.

He nods and smiles, looking down at the pink shell hanging from his neck, proudly, “Yeah. Erica gave me it as a best friends gift. She found the shell on the beach and it reminded her of me. It’s handmade. Do you want to see it?”

The thought of Gerard touching something that Derek had given him, something that is so special, makes Stiles feel sick and gross all over but he doesn't for a second think that Gerard is at all interested in the piece - and he's right. Gerard huffs and shakes his head, going back to his meal, “I don’t care about your little friendship tokens. Especially any that involve that Reyes girl. You know I don’t like her, Stiles. I don’t know why you insist on associating with her.”

“She’s a good friend,” Stiles defends, bristling at the accusation that Erica could be anything less than such.

Gerard laughs bitterly, “She’s a whore and everyone knows it. I don’t want people thinking the same of you. Thinking I let my husband run around with a slut like that. The disrespect…” Gerard trails off and it takes all of the self-control Stiles has garnered throughout their marriage to stop him leaping over the table and braining the shrivelled up bastard on the patio slabs below.

Seemingly bored with his husband’s adventures, Gerard allows Stiles to leave not long later. Stiles bids him goodnight, presses a kiss to his cheek and leaves for the stairs. Heather must have taken his bags up to his room, he thinks as he strides through the lobby and discovers he’s right when he gets to his room. All his clothes are already put away, his bed is made up nicely and there’s a little toffee on his pillow.

God, he loves Heather.

Popping the toffee in his mouth, Stiles walks to the bathroom and runs himself a nice, hot bubble bath. When he checks his phone he finds he has a new message from Lydia asking if he wants a lift tomorrow for their weekly Monday meet up and also asking if he’s feeling okay. He tells her yes to both and that he’ll tell her everything tomorrow over ice cream and soda. Once he’s out and his bath water has gone from a bright purple to a slightly dimmer, dirtier version - planes make Stiles gross - he walks back into his bedroom and yelps, startled.

Heather is standing right in the doorway like she was about to knock and ask to come in. Her fist is still raised in a knocking motion and everything. Stiles eyes her fist and the girl blushes before bringing her hand back down. “Uhm,” She says, her cheeks bright red, “I wanted to talk to you.”

Stiles nods and smiles at her nervous expression; Heather is one of Stiles’s closest friends but she’s easily embarrassed and the fact that Stiles is butt naked probably isn’t helping anything. He swerves around the woman and walks over to his drawers, opening them and grabbing some pyjama shorts and a baggy sleep shirt, “Hey, thanks for putting my stuff away. What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Oh, no problem,” Heather says breathily as she plays with her fingers. She looks worried and unsure of herself. Kind of like she isn’t sure this is something she should be talking about. Well, that just makes Stiles want to know all the more, “It’s,” She starts, then stops, then starts again, “Well, it’s just that while you were away I thought I’d work on Gerard’s side of the house. There wasn’t much to do here, you’re a relatively clean client.”

“Thanks,” He says, relishing in the appreciation of his cleanliness. Then he remembers that Heather looks nervous and his mind jumps from one thing to another, “Wait, he didn’t bother you or anything-?” He starts to ask but Heather shakes her head, no.

“No, no,” She waves him off then goes to sit down on the side of Stiles’ bed. He joins her, nudging his knee against hers in reassurance and support, “It’s just, I was cleaning his office, sorting out some of his filing and stuff. I wasn’t snooping, you know I wouldn’t snoop, but…” She pauses and looks at Stiles who nods in encouragement, “I found his will.”

Stiles frowns, “His will? What’s wrong with his will?”

“Well,” Heather says, looking sheepish, “You’re, err… you’re not in it.”

…

Slowly, Stiles turns his head towards his friend. Heather is biting her lip and, from the look on her uneasy face, there must be a crazed look in Stiles’ eye.

See, Stiles is a relatively nice person. Actually, overall he would say he’s a really nice person and so would most of the people that have ever been lucky enough to meet him. However, he has this strange, dormant, rageful temper. It’s not like a normal temper, which he has plenty of, too. No, this is the sort of rage that goes off like a volcano, that fills the air with poisonous gases and buries everyone in its path alive with scorching ash and red-hot lava. His anger is legendary and right now, he’s ready to blow.

Calmly and carefully, Stiles smiles and asks, “I’m not in his will?”

Heather takes a deep breath and rests her hand comfortingly on Stiles' knee, “I'm sorry for your loss.”

Her hand isn’t resting there for long before Stiles is up, leaping from the bed like a flash of lightning. He paces the floor, eyes wild and wide. He’s not…? How could he not be…?

“That evil, sick  _fuck_ !” Stiles yells, whipping back around to look at Heather who seems to be trying to edge out of the room, “I’m not in his  _fucking will_ ? Do you know what I’ve done for that old bastard? Do you know what I’ve  _done_?”

Heather raises her hands and shrugs, “I’m sure you’ve done a lot, Stiles, but-”

“I’ve sucked his dick!” Stiles screeches, making Heather’s mouth drop open. That’s probably not something she ever needed or wanted to hear but there it is, out in the open, hanging in the air like the memory of Gerard flaccid cock, “It was in my mouth!” He wails and continues, “Do you know how long it takes for him to get hard? A really long fucking time. That means I spent a really long fucking time with his withered prick in my mouth!

“I’ve let him fuck me, too, and honey, he doesn’t use a condom. Why would he? We’re married after all! Yes! Married! I’m married to that ancient fucking creep and he doesn’t have the decency to put me in his will?!”

“Please stop sharing this information with me.”

“This is horrendous,” Stiles hisses, his hand pressing against his chest, over the top of his heart, “The only reason I’m here at all if for his money. He  _knows_  that. Just like I know he only married me for my tiny little twink body. I’ve kept my end of the bargain, he has to keep his!”

Feeling deflated, Stiles collapses on his bed. He buries his face in the silk sheets and his big, fluffy pillows and tries not to scream. This is awful, just fucking awful. What the hell is he supposed to do now? All of this, the marriage, the sex, the putting up with his vile, vulgar being - it’s been for nothing. How could Gerard do this to him?

Delicate, dainty fingers find their way to Stiles’ hair and stroke through the strands, soothing and massaging his rage headache away. He feels like shit, but Heather is there and that makes him feel a little better. She stops after a moment and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m going to get you a slice of cake,” she says and Stiles nods into his pillow.

“Thanks, Hev.” He says and tries not to think too bitterly about Erica’s jokes - or maybe not jokes. Killing him for his money seems very off the table now. She’s going to have to find something else to talk about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sick anymore! I mean, I still have a cough that makes me feel like an ancient being is waking from its hibernation deep within my chest cavity and now that it's awake, it's pushing my organs aside, tearing through thick layers of muscle and cracking and breaking the bones of my rib cage, ready to burst out and unleash its reign of terror upon us all...
> 
> But my nose has stopped running so I think we're in the clear. 
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://milkysterek.tumblr.com/)!


	5. Halloween pt. 1

There are ghosts in this house. They shelter in dark shadows, press closely to the walls, creep along wide, open hallways while hidden inhabitants toss and turn through turbulent sleep. It’s old, dirty, unknown. A new place, but Stiles suspects he’s seen it before, picked up part of its design over the years from tv shows and magazines. He walks the corridors just like the ghosts do, hiding in deep, black corners where no light can touch him, not even the light that glares down from the glass ceiling, passing sweeping judgement with its golden stream of brilliance. He hides from the light and keeps walking. 

Gerard is an awful person. He’s a businessman, a con artist, an abusive monster that feeds on the weak and relishes in the suffering of the poor, less fortunate, anyone he sees as beneath him - and everyone is beneath Gerard. 

Especially Stiles. 

Three years ago, one of Erica’s favourite magazines ran an article on California’s richest single men. She, Stiles and Lydia had cut out the names of the top three. In third place was Peter Hale, a handsome and wealthy member of the Hale clan, born into money and earning more and more by the day. There wasn’t much listed about Peter’s personal life  _ or _ his business deals, only a few flings with models and B-list actresses were mentioned with little else. Deucalion was second; rich new money with skyscrapers in every city and a southern British accent to sweeten the pot. First place was awarded to Gerard Argent. Gerard was known more for the exploits of his wild daughter and radical beliefs than anything else these days but once he had been the head of a booming business empire, an empire that he was still running, though a lot more quietly than he had done in his youth. The article said that, after divorcing his third wife, Gerard was looking to try something new and wanted to spend his remaining years with someone he could drink champagne with on his personal yacht, someone who could cheer him on at the golf course and spoil with his endless wealth. 

Lydia placed the names in a hat and one by one, with closed eyes, the friends picked out the names of their future husbands. Stiles was disappointed, that was for sure, but the promise of a life with the richest man in California eased the blow. Besides, Stiles never really expected it to come to anything. It was a joke. Just three friends messing around. How was he supposed to know Erica and Lydia were so determined - and Stiles was never the sort of kid to get left behind. So, at nineteen years old, with wide eyes and bad intentions, Stiles and his closest friends gatecrashed Allison Argent’s birthday party - and the rest is history. 

In retrospect, Stiles should never have been so naive, so dumb, so god damn greedy. He enjoys his life now, but he’d enjoyed his life before Gerard, too, and maybe if he’d never played that stupid game, maybe if he’d never snuck into that dumb party, he could have achieved everything he has now on his own. Perhaps he and his father would be on better terms. Perhaps sometimes, late at night, Stiles wouldn’t have to endure that sinking feeling in his stomach, the one that makes him shudder and his throat catch when he thinks about what he’s  _ done _ to win the life he has. 

No, not win. Stiles  _ earned _ this position. But perhaps he could win this time. Perhaps Gerard could lose.

Stiles keeps the thought of Gerard’s demise locked away in a forgotten corner of his mind as he creeps further and further down hallways and stairs until he reaches a set of double doors. There’s light spewing from the cracks between each block of wood, illuminating the dust particles in the stagnant air. He opens the doors and steps out onto a balcony. It isn’t bright outside like he had expected it to be. In fact, it looks to be the middle of the night. The stars are out, dotted in the inky sky and the moon is full, bathing everything it touches in an ethereal, shimmering blanket. Stiles steps closer to the edge of the balcony and leans over the wall, looking down on the scene below. 

The gardens of the house are filled with rose bushes, spewing petals of all different colours. Flowers and trees fill the lush green plains of the grounds and wildlife flourishes. In the distance, there are tennis courts and a golf course, all with the immaculate landscaping that usually comes with money. Directly beneath the balcony sits a gigantic swimming pool filled with tempting water, glowing from the fitted lights that shine below the surface. The lights illuminate the figure of a man by the poolside, a man whose shadow casts long and dark behind him, tainting the ground in his wake. 

The outside of the house looks like a palace, somewhere fit for a king. It’s a stark contrast from the damaged and decaying home within and instantly, Stiles knows exactly where he is. 

This is his house. The house he shares with Gerard. The inside is different, far different from what he knows it to be in reality but here, from the balcony, he can see his home. 

Suddenly he’s on the ground. He has no idea how he got here, only that he is here now. He’s by the pool, looking into the still water at his reflection that stares dead-eyed back at him. 

He isn’t alone.

Stiles staggers back, away from the water’s edge but it’s too late - Gerard has him caught in his tight grip. It doesn’t matter how much he struggles, he’s caught and there’s no escape. For some reason, he can’t fight back. He tries to hit his husband but finds he’s too weak to do any real damage, like he’s somehow ingested muscle relaxers, turning his limbs to warm spaghetti. Stiles strikes and he strikes but nothing works; nothing wipes that slimy, wet smirk from Gerard's pale, moon-kissed face. 

God, Stiles hates that face. 

Glaring into the cold, empty eyes of the man he vowed to love and cherish forever, yet hasn’t even for a moment, Stiles feels something icy enter his hands. Something metallic. He doesn’t know who gave it to him, he doesn’t know how he got it, but without a moment’s hesitation, Stiles raises the gun and shoots. 

There’s no bang that Stiles hears but Gerard falls back anyway. He stagers, bewildered for what feels like an eternity before disappearing with a splash into the water below. 

Stiles stares. He stares for far too long. 

And then he panics. 

What has he done?  _ Oh, God _ , what has he done? There’s no way he can get away with this, no way he can cover it up! Not now. Not with so little time to prepare. He’s going to go to jail. He’s going to get locked away and never see his friends or family again. 

Oh, fuck. He’s never going to see  _ Derek _ again! 

He can’t… He can’t...

Feeling like he’s about to throw up, Stiles runs to the poolside and looks down, hoping this is a dream, hoping this is some fucked up joke. 

It’s not a joke. 

There, in the blood red water of the once glistening pool, Gerard Argent’s body floats: dead. 

The ringing of Stiles’ alarm wakes him from the horror. He’s wet, shaking, covered in cold, smelly sweat from head to toe. Sun is pouring in from the outside world and down beneath the carpet, Stiles can hear the movement of staff getting ready for the day. He still feels sick, feels like he just survived some sort of near-death experience, but that was a dream and it does not do well to dwell on dreams. He read that somewhere once, so it must be true. 

Stiles rolls over and knocks off his alarm clock. Fucking hell, he’s going to need a minute. 

 

The decorations for the dining room are already in place when Stiles heads downstairs half an hour later. He’s fresh out of the shower, his hair in tiny curlers to make it just a little bit hobbit-like and he’s wearing a yellow crop top hoodie that Erica bought him because he is her sunshine. This isn’t what he plans on wearing for the day; he has things to do and if he dirties his outfit before  _ they _ arrive, Gerard'll skin him alive. And that would be unfortunate. 

Stiles stalks the length of the dining table, checking everything is perfect and in it’s right place. There are a few things here and there that he doesn’t like and he plucks them up and holds them out until someone takes the discarded objects away from him. Honestly, what was he thinking ordering these many miniature pumpkins? They’re cluttering the whole table up. 

Once he’s satisfied with the dining room, he heads to the blue parlour where he and the family will take tea after their meal. It’s a beautiful room full of plush, powder blue chairs, an elegant fireplace and a chandelier that hangs in the centre, drawing the eye of anyone who sets foot in the room. There aren’t any decorations in here because last Christmas when Stiles had wrapped tinsel around the candelabras and hung baubles from the ceiling, Victoria called him tacky. 

Who is Victoria to call him tacky anyway? Look at her eyebrows. 

They haven’t used this parlour room for a while so Stiles makes sure to check every surface for dust, just in case. He doesn’t want to give that witch a reason to look down her nose at him. It all seems pretty spic and span and Stiles smiles to himself before turning around and coming face to face with his husband. 

“Gerard,” He gasps, his eyes popping with surprise. He’d expected his husband to be out at the golf course or working or… Stiles doesn’t know but he hadn’t thought he’d be hanging around here. Gerard despises Stiles’ ‘fancy shit’, as he puts it, even though Stiles taking care of the ‘fancy shit’ is one of the obligations of their relationship. If Stiles were to turn around tomorrow and decide to say fuck it to decorating and planning their social functions and busying himself in the community, there’d be hell to pay. Gerard is all about keeping up appearances, he just doesn’t want to be around while it’s happening. 

“You’re not wearing that,” Gerard’s cold, half-dead eyes look him up and down, a grimace twisting on his thin lips.

Stiles cracks his jaw and crosses his arms over his chest, “ _ No _ ,” He says, with a little more emphasis than he intended. Gerard’s expression doesn’t change and he rights himself quickly, “I have something nicer tucked away upstairs. I’ll go and get changed once I’ve checked the ballroom.”

Because, yes, Stiles - well, Gerard - has a ballroom. 

Stiles makes to leave, escape, throw himself out of the window if he must - oh, how he’d leave a beautiful corpse - but Gerard takes his arm, grasping Stiles’ warm flesh between his ice-cold fingers. Stiles grimaces down at the hand but lets himself be led back over to the chairs. Stiles sits, like he’s obviously supposed to and watches as a maid scurries in with tea before hurrying back out again. Lucky him. 

Gerard picks up his teacup and Stiles watches with cold indifference as he splutters, accidentally inhaling some of the liquid. With any luck, the old bastard might just drop dead then and there, drowned in his own tea. Usually, Stiles would see that as a good thing but now that he knows he’s out of the will, what’s the point? Let him last another decade for all it matters to Stiles. 

His life is hell. 

As it goes, he doesn’t drown, and instead smacks at his chest a couple of times before placing the cup down and turning his attention back to Stiles. 

“There’s something we need to talk about before the kids get here,” Gerard says easily, his dark eyes boring into Stiles’ squirming flesh, “I want you on your best behaviour today. No fuck ups, no attitude, no insulting my family by running your mouth and showing me up. You are to be polite and represent our household with pride. If any of my children show displeasure at your behavior, you answer to me; if you’re loud and obnoxious, you answer to me; f I think for a second that you’re being your sly, snotty, ungrateful self, you answer to me - and with God as my witness, I’ll make you regret ever crossing me. Is that clear?”

Being talked to like a child never fails to make Stiles’ blood boil, but here they play by Gerard’s rules, so he has no choice other than to do as he’s told and answer politely. There are some things Stiles will risk snarking at Gerard for, some things that are worth the very real threat of a grounding or a smack. This isn’t one of them. Instead of pointing out his displeasure, pointing out that it’s Gerard’s shitty family that provoke Stiles into acting the way he does - which is never really that bad at all - he bows his head and nods, eyes on the carpet, “It’s clear, Gerard.”

“Good,” The old man smiles, thin and pale, then stands, taking his teacup with him, “Get back to doing… whatever it is you do. And remember to get changed. I don’t want you looking a state in front of the kids.”

Gerard leaves Stiles sitting in the parlour. He falls forward, burying his head in his hands. Suddenly the weight of today is all too much and Stiles feels like his head is swimming, he’s drowning. There are so many unpleasant things he’s going to have to do today and Stiles barely thinks he can survive one of them. 

 

The family shows up for an early dinner ten minutes before they’d been expected. Stiles is still in his bedroom, fluffing out his hair and buttoning up his pale yellow shirt when Heather gives two knocks on his door, announcing their arrival. As quick as he can, Stiles tumbles down the stairs and skids into the entrance hall just in time for the double doors to open and the Argent clan to make saunter in.

Gerard shoots him a withering gaze and looks away in disgust, his expression turning instantly at the sight of his precious daughter. 

Kate looks good, but then, Kate always looks good. She’s wearing a dark, skin-tight dress with heels and her blonde hair is styled in its usual loose curls; her round eyes shine with a sort of menacing spark that Stiles doesn’t like one bit and when she gets close enough she willingly accepts her father’s strong hug. Not that she looks particularly thrilled about having to touch him, in Stiles’ opinion, and if Gerard notices her mild disdain for him, he doesn’t let it show. 

Setting his jaw, preparing himself for what’s about to come, Stiles looks away from the pair and back towards the door. 

Derek is stood beside Chris, not talking and pointedly not making eye contact with anyone. His shoes must be pretty interesting, Stiles thinks, but it’s without humour. These events never come without difficulty but, despite how often they roll around, Stiles never gets used to them and the pain they bring never lessens. 

Despite his obvious discomfort - which Stiles thinks he needs to get a grip on  _ right now _ \- Derek is as handsome as ever. 

It’s Stiles’ turn to stare at the ground.

Pre-dinner drinks are held on the patio. 

“Stiles,” Allison says, the dimples in her cheeks showing as she smiles. She’s wearing a tight dress, much like her aunt’s, with a nice jacket and holding a clutch bag under one of her arms; her hair is pulled back in a pretty braid that exposes her ears, showing off the glittering diamonds that rest on her lobes. Stiles doesn’t dislike Allison, but he’d rather continue gazing into his cocktail whilst wallowing in self-pity than talk to her right now. 

“Hey, Ally,” He smiles back and takes a long sip of his drink, wishing there was more alcohol and less fruity-whatever in it, “How’ve you been?”

“Great,” She grins again, coming to stand beside him. The two look out over the garden while Kate makes some joke in the background and everyone pretends to think she’s funny. Or maybe they’re not pretending - she could be hilarious for all Stiles knows. He doubts it though. He bets she’s all dull and dry like a Ritz cracker. Allison clears her throat and continues, “I love what you’ve done with the garden. It’s beautiful.”

Stiles immediately feels bad for not paying attention to her and for kinda wanting her to go away. It’s not Allison’s fault he’s in such a foul mood and he’s willing to admit to himself that his easy dismissal for Ally as a person is probably fueled by his dislike of her family. Which is dumb and stuck up of him and he’s going to try and do better in the future. Also, saying something nice about his garden is a sure fire way to get into Stiles’ good books. Does that make him easy? Well, it would be the only thing. 

“Thank you,” He says and surprises himself greatly by actually meaning it. His gardens are his pride and joy and, keeping in mind his very new resolution to make an effort with Allison, he offers her an olive branch, “Would you like me to give you a tour?”

Allison beams, her lips turning up and cheeks dimpling even more if that’s at all possible. She opens her mouth, about to answer when her mother cuts in, “We’re going in now,” Victoria says in her clipped tone. Her icy blue eyes stare Stiles down and Stiles is about to scowl right back or maybe make a comment about all the nights Chris has been ‘staying late at work’ recently but quickly remembers Gerard’s warning from earlier and wisely decides to keep his mouth shut and his biting retort to himself. 

He gives Allison an encouraging smile and turns away from his garden, trying not think too much about the flash of memory - of ethereal moonlight and dark red water - that crosses his mind when he finally prises his eyes away from the flowers. That’s not something he needs to think about right now. 

 

Staff are lined up on either side of the walls when Stiles and the group enter the dining room. They’re dressed smartly in black and white with gloves covering their serving hands and despite the grandness of the manor, they look out of place here. Stiles hired them after a recommendation from Lydia who promised they’d help give his evening that extra edge he’d need to tell Victoria where to shove her ‘tacky’ Christmas comments and Stiles wasn’t about to disagree with Lydia - not even if his life depended on it. He supposes the amount of staff sits uncomfortably with him because Stiles is used to eating out or, whenever he’s staying home to eat, having Heather alone serve his meals. Which is still a lot, Stiles thinks, considering most people make their own meals and don’t have them handed to them on a silver platter. 

Then again, most people aren’t married to the richest man in California. 

Stiles wonders if it’d be disconnected of him to envy ‘most people’.

They have soup to start, because they always have soup for starters. It’s old man soup; plain, bland and easy on Gerard’s digestive system. The sight of a clump of vegetable caught in the corner of Gerard’s mouth makes Stiles’ stomach roll. He puts his spoon down and pushes the bowl away.

They make small talk for a while, nothing of real importance coming up between musings of the weather and how the Chris’ golf skills are coming along. Not well, apparently. Victoria says he broke a window at the country club and Gerard tells him not to bother going back, he can use their golf course from now on. Stiles doesn’t particularly mind Chris, so he has no complaints. 

When Kate is done with her soup, the drops her spoon down into the empty bowl with a brittle clang and props one elbow firmly on the table. With her free hand, she takes her wine glass and sips deeply. 

“So,” The whole table looks towards her, almost obediently, and Kate’s red mouth curls up in a satisfied smile, “What’s new in my niece's love life?”

“Kate,” Chris says warningly but receives little reaction.

“I haven’t seen her in months. She could be getting married for all I know!” Kate’s laugh sounds breezy but has none of the floating, gentle effect that Erica’s does. It’s nasty and it makes Stiles feel uneasy. “You’re not getting married are you, sweetheart?”

Allison pauses, blinking rapidly a few times as her cheeks gradually redden before finally lighting up like Christmas. Holy shit. “Well,” She swallows, looking uncomfortably around the room, like she’s hoping someone will jump in and save her. Stiles thinks he’s probably the one who’s supposed to do the saving, but the tension that has suddenly dropped heavily upon the dinner table has him pinned in his seat. He’s not sure why, but something in him is whispering that this won’t end well. “About that…”

“She’s not getting married,” Victoria clears up. Her voice has a finality to it. One not even Stiles would like to go up against. He totally would go up against it, but not for fun - not as, like, a hobby. He’d go up against it out of necessity but not for any other reason. 

Allison sits a little higher in her chair, raises her chin like that’ll make her stronger. She looks a little stronger. “Yes I am,” She tells the room, with all the confidence in the world. She turns her head towards Kate who’s watching her niece with a calculating expression. “His name’s Scott, we met a month ago and now we’re getting married. I know I’m young and this is happening fast but we love each other and this is happening with or without my family’s approval.”

The room goes silent. Stiles suspects even the waitstaff are holding their breath. Part of him wants to clap for the girl who so often submits to her domineering parents. Instead, he clears his throat, raises his glass and says a cheerful, “Congratulations.”

Kate follows suit, amusement glittering in her wicked eyes and so does Derek after a prod from his girlfriend. Gross. At least he has to decency to look annoyed by it. Though that might just be Derek’s face. He often looks annoyed when he’s in Kate’s presence. Or the presence of anyone, really. 

Anyone but Stiles. 

From the opposite side of the table, Chris snorts into his drink. He empties his wine glass in one long gulp then sets his blue eyes on Stiles. He looks tired, maybe a little ill, and a lot pissed off. The slow, resentful smile that curls onto his scruff rough jaw is tainted with malice, “I suppose you’ll be happy, Stiles,” His voice is low, growl-like, “If they do get married, you’ll finally have someone your own age to play with.”

“Dad-” Allison begins, but she’s quickly cut off. 

“What?” He scoffs, reaching for Victoria’s still fairly full glass and taking a swig from it, “You’re going to dispute the fact that Stiles here is the same age as his step-granddaughter's boyfriend? Or is Scott older than him?” 

Stiles takes his own glass, swirls the liquid around until it makes a tiny whirlpool, “When’s his birthday?” 

From the corner of his eye, Stiles sees Derek’s mouth quirk up. It feels like a victory. 

“That’s enough out of you.” Gerard bites and Stiles sinks back into his chair, quelled. 

 

Their main meal comes not long after. They’re having spaghetti. He can’t put his finger on why, but Stiles wishes he’d arranged for something to be served other than soft, flimsy pasta. 

He feels a bit sick. 

Though maybe his sour stomach has less to do with the texture of the meal and more to do with the fact that Kate is trying to hand feed Derek a meatball. Stiles hopes she drops that fucking meatball on her dress. But her dress is black so it won’t stain anyway. He shouldn’t waste good spite wishes on such trivial things. Next time he’ll wish for her to choke on the spaghetti. That would have a bigger payout. 

“So, Derek,” Gerard clears his throat from the head of the table, like he’s trying and failing to dislodge some phlegm. It makes the hairs on the back of Stiles’ neck stand on end. In a grossed out way, not a sexy way. “How’s business?”

Derek puts his knife and fork down, straightens his back a little before laying his eyes on the patriarch of the family. Derek looks cool and calm, like making eye contact with the man whose husband he’s shagging is second nature. “Good,” He says, in an even tone. And that’s all he says. Because he’s Derek. 

“Thrilling conversation as always, Hale,” Gerard laughs.

Kate rolls her eyes, fondly swats at Derek’s arm just like Stiles has done a thousand times. It makes his blood boil. 

“Work is going great, Dad,” She says, “It looks like Derek’s going to be getting another promotion. Which is way overdue, but better late than never, hey?”

Stiles didn’t know about any promotion...

Gerard nods, a satisfied smile on his lips, “Well, as long as he’s providing for you. I know you’re more than capable of looking after yourself Katie, but a man needs to work too. Even if his job _is_ little more than taking handouts from his rich uncle.” 

Stiles can almost taste the hostility Gerard has for Derek - and that’s without the man knowing this daughter’s boyfriend is fucking his husband. Looking around the table, Stiles wonders if any of them actually like each other. Excluding himself and Derek, of course, who like each other a whole lot. 

Kate doesn’t look all that impressed by her father’s comment, but Stiles doubts it has anything to do with the blatant jab at her boyfriend. Kate has never been a fan of gender roles, and those are the only words of praise Stiles will ever give her. “Thanks, dad, but we’re doing just fine. Aren’t we babe?” She adds, looking at Derek expectantly. 

Derek raises his brows but nods anyway, “Just fine,” He parrots. 

Poor thing.

Not only had Chris finished his own drink, but he’s drained his wife’s glass too and now he’s working on his refill. Victoria keeps shooting her husband worried glances and Allison has tried to steer the glass away from her father more than once throughout the meal. Every now and again, Chris laughs to himself. HIs humour is not contagious. 

“If you two are doing so  _ fine _ , why aren’t you married yet?” He asks. 

God, Stiles hates these prolonged silences. He wonders if all wealthy people behave like this. 

Kate’s face curdles at her brother’s comment and her jaw flexes, hardens. Chris has touched a nerve and everyone at the table seems aware of it, except Chris, who looks like he’s having a great old time trying to wind some spaghetti onto his fork. It isn’t going particularly well. 

There’s movement under the table, movement from Derek and while Stiles can’t see what’s happening, whatever it is seems to calm Kate. Her expression cools and she leans into Derek’s side, raising one of her hands. Stiles suspects her other hand, the one that’s under the table is being held by Derek’s. 

“Don’t look at me,” She laughs and pats at Derek’s stubble, scratches her nails through it a few times like she’s petting a dog, “You’ll have to ask this guy why he hasn’t popped the question yet.”

Derek smiles, warm and placating. It looks a little too close to the one he gives Stiles when he’s acting like a brat and Derek is trying to sweet talk him. “I’m working on it,” Derek chuckles and Stiles’ heart sinks. 

 

Derek wraps his arm around Kate’s waist towards the end of dessert; Kate presses her thin face into the crook of his neck. They’re talking quietly amongst themselves. A conversation Stiles can’t pick up on. He’s quietly thankful he can’t hear them. The sight of them entwined alone is enough. 

When Kate kisses him, slow and sensually until they break away with still closed eyes, Stiles decides it’s time for dinner to be over.

Now he’s the one that needs to get his shit together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when you haven't updated in five months lol  
> i believe i wrote the majority of this chapter in early december, maybe late november and then i wrote like the last 1.5k in the last hour   
> profesh


End file.
